One in 10 children in California has at least one immigrant parent. I was one of those kids.
I grew up in a home shaped by both hope and uncertainty. My father lived his entire life undocumented, right up until the day he passed.
He wanted a better life for us, but at that time, there was no viable legal path for him to gain legal status. Even though, as an adult and a legal professional, I became familiar with immigration laws and had access to legal networks and resources, my father didn’t have the same options as others.
In the early 2000s my father was arrested for a traffic violation, which ultimately led to his immigration case, a process he had been afraid to pursue on his own terms. In 2007, when I was a college student, my father’s case led to a voluntary departure, separating him from our family.
‘Impossible choices’
The year he was gone felt never-ending. Ultimately, my father decided to return to the U.S. without proper permission. While I don’t condone his decision, I was relieved to have those last few years with him. I often think about how we might have missed out on those memories if he had chosen to follow the law keeping him out of the U.S. The joy of being together outweighed the legal and emotional complications.
I know this is a bittersweet reality for so many California families forced to make impossible choices.
That said, growing up with the constant fear of my father’s deportation weighed heavily on me. Every time immigration policies changed or I heard a news broadcast about raids, I was terrified. Latino media networks often amplified the fear-mongering rhetoric, making the threat feel even more immediate. I dreaded every immigration court date: Would my father come home? Would we lose him forever to a country he hadn’t seen in decades?
These experiences shaped my perspective, especially early in my career when I worked as a paralegal supporting survivors of domestic violence with restraining orders, custody and immigration matters. I saw the same, familiar patterns of fear and trauma in the families I worked with. Survivors grappled with the threat of deportation on top of the violence they had endured.
Safety planning for these survivors was incredibly complex; the threats extended beyond the individual to their children, who — like me — lived in constant fear of losing a parent. On several occasions, I’ve spoken to survivors whose partner threatened to call immigration authorities to report their illegal status. Having their status weaponized against them, survivors were forced to choose between enduring abuse or facing deportation and being separated from their families.
This sense of fear and the profound impact of misguided immigration policies were tragically highlighted in the recent story of an 11-year-old girl in Texas. She was relentlessly bullied by classmates who threatened to have her parents deported. Unable to cope with the emotional toll, she took her own life.
Her story underscores the dangerous, potentially life-threatening consequences of the incendiary rhetoric surrounding immigration. These children, who already bear the burden of being part of immigrant families, are further traumatized by the hate and fear that surrounds them. This is the kind of emotional damage I grew up with, and it’s something I continue to see in my work with families facing deportation.
Ethical enforcement of immigration laws requires a deeper conversation about their impact on families, especially children. The trauma caused by family separations goes far beyond the moment. It affects how children grow up, how they view themselves and how they interact with the world around them. The emotional scars linger, shaping entire generations.
As much as I wish my father were still here, I am relieved he isn’t living through today’s political climate. Even with my professional expertise, I couldn’t navigate my father’s case successfully. His illegal return to the U.S. meant he could never pursue legal status.
Anxiety multiplies
Misunderstandings and misinformation about the complexities of immigration law lead many to criticize and scrutinize our undocumented population, without comprehending its devastating effects.
The reality for undocumented families today is even more difficult and heart-wrenching than it was 20 years ago. For survivors of domestic violence and human trafficking, the fear of deportation compounds the trauma they and their family experience.
But local communities can make a difference by organizing in support of their undocumented neighbors. This begins with education to counter negative assumptions and judgements. Communities must take accountability for how their actions contribute to harmful rhetoric (and behavior) that profoundly impact vulnerable children. Additionally, by engaging local representatives, we can push for policies that prioritize humane treatment and recognize the devastating effects on children of undocumented immigrants.
Perhaps first, we all can strive for greater compassion and understanding in the face of draconian reforms that undermine our collective empathy and essential humanity.
Carielle Escalante wrote this op-ed for CalMatters. She is an advocate for survivors of gender-based violence.